The stick came swift
immediate
promise of pain.

How did it happen?

Is there a how?
Does it matter—
when,
where?

Quick wood
snaps back.
Is there even a why?

I don’t know
everything,
know it all,
not God,
thank God.

What good is a know-it-all?

Sure,
would’ve been good to know
the stick would pop back,
pressed as it was against the limb,
held in stiff, stubborn soil—
trigger.

My head tilted just so,
shoulders dancing
with hands yanking weeds
gathering the dead.

Dread.
Snap.
Immediate promise
delivered.

Sure,
would’ve been good to know—
maybe
step back
in time
turn
the other cheek
just so,
and no stick in the eye.

But knowing comes at a price.
You know this.

The tumor—Tommy.
The who-knew lies
for Carla’s rise.
Lenny’s pints pocketed,
4AM sips—
to wake me up—
before the school bus.

Angela’s stash,
baggies labeled,
a plan—
because she’s so alone in her crowded home.
And the swift that slams,
snap-jam,
into Gladys’s bay pane—
pain,
death by slow bird breaths.
feet from the quilt she mends.

Know it all?
No thanks.

You should’ve worn safety glasses, like I do,
says the after-the-fact-slap—
you, you know-it-all.

Snap back, stick, white globe.
A dark world learns me again.
Pain keeps its promise.

©Pennie Nichols. All Rights Reserved. 2026